


Quarter Past Four

by RottingManifesto



Category: The Outsiders (1983), The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mystery-esque, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RottingManifesto/pseuds/RottingManifesto
Summary: Ponyboy has some issues. Said issues bring him home. But not in the way anyone expected. And once he’s back in Tulsa, nothing is the same.
Comments: 41
Kudos: 88





	1. New

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So, if you haven’t noticed, this fic is still a work in progress and will be getting constant revisions as I go along. Some things might be deleted or edited. So, just know that things might change. But I hope you enjoy! (Also, Ms. S, if you’re reading this still, hi!)  
> -Memphis

# Quarter Past Four

* * *

1\. New  
  
  


It’s a quarter past four.

I’m in a cold sweat, a thousand miles away from the world I once knew— both in a literal sense and metaphorical. There’s no one here but my fears. So I call Sodapop. No answer.  
  


—

“I’d love to close my eyes, but I can never rest my mind.” My hands are shaking violently. I can’t smoke in the psychiatrist’s office, so I have to just sit there, staring, trying not to break down. The man with thick-rimmed glasses and shaggy black hair nods, saying things I can’t hear. It’s a blur. It’s all a blur.

—

My roommate is a nice guy. Real understanding. I think his name is Evan or Emmet or something. That’s all I know. He was the one to convince me to write down my thoughts. Maybe one day I’ll publish them. Or maybe I’ll just save it for the obituary. 

—

It took me a while, but I decided that Journalism would be the best thing for me. Darry had yelled at me for choosing such an “impractical” career— says the man who thinks lifting weights is the only way to cope with things. But three weeks in and I’m sticking by it. I have to write. It’s the only thing that keeps me okay. That keeps me here. Darry will just have to suck it up. 

—

Fall is near. I just feel sick all the time. My psychiatrist suggests some form of seasonal depression, but I doubt it. I really just feel sick. I’ll turn out fine. I always turn out fine.

—

Darry calls me late one afternoon. His voice is as deep and loud as ever. “Kiddo, when are you comin’ home?”

“Soon,” I tell him. “Whenever I finish up the semester.”

“Okay. I love you, little buddy.” I can hear his heart shatter. But I know he means what he said. I just lie to myself that he doesn’t mean it. 

  
  



	2. Up and Up

Up and Up

* * *

By the time October rolls around, I’m numb to a lot of things. Car horns don’t startle me. The smell of weed is normal. Yelling and screaming and passionate make-out sessions don’t faze me anymore— if they aren’t directed at me. But this isn’t home. I’ll never call California my home. But I don’t know where my home is, because it sure as hell isn’t in Tulsa. 

—

Evan drops a sack of groceries on the counter. He’s rambling on about a protest he and his buddies ran into. Someone got tazed by a cop, but that’s it. Real exciting stuff.

He barely turns around to give me a weird look. “Did you ever know a guy named Randy?” He tosses out some lettuce and a sack of potatoes.

“Yeah.” Randy Adderson, the Soc-turned-hippie. We aren’t close. But I remember him. I put my book down. 

Evan pulls out some microwaveable dinners. “He was the one who got tazed.”

I make a noise like a laugh. “Good for him.” 

—

The pudgy professor taps my paper. He says something about my essay not being that great.

“Why not?” I’m sweating like a pig. I pull my jacket off with an angry huff. The professor scoots back in his seat. 

“You were supposed to write a character analysis, not a book summary. You’ll have to rewrite this and read the prompt all the way through.” The professor scoots the 20 or so pages over to me. 

I want to punch something. But I don’t. I just nod, take the papers, and suppress those angry urges like I’m supposed to. I can’t stay mad at him forever. I just have to force myself to move along. 

—

It’s 2:06 AM. My stomach keeps churning and I can’t unclench my jaw. So I get up from typing to calm down. The mirror shows me a man so different from the bright-eyed fourteen year old. He’s taller, stronger, more scared and angry and confused about himself than ever before. He still has his mom’s freckles, but not her smile. Hell, he doesn’t even remember the sound of his own laugh. What would that fourteen year old say to him? 

Nothing. He wouldn’t even recognize himself. Poor kid would be scared of himself— of me. Not that I’d blame him. I splash some water. I got a character analysis to write and a world of problems I can’t ignore.   
  


—

A few days pass and I find myself wandering the empty streets. Walking should help clear my head. Well, it did in the past, at least.

  
Thinking where I’m going to and where I’ve been is strangely cathartic. I’ve been through hell and back. Does that mean Heaven is still up ahead? I don’t know. I shoot a look upwards.

I name the smallest star Johnny.

—

Someone rings the doorbell and leaves before I can open the door. There’s a small package with a note. 

_PM— take two pills a day. Eat food after. Keep me posted on how you’re doing. -Dr.Adder._

I think I’m fine without the medication. I can’t keep the thoughts away all the time, but it turns out fine. I take the package anyway— just in case. Just in case I’m not fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated this on May 18th, if you care to read it again. Thank so for reading as always and stay gold.


	3. Floating

Floating

* * *

It’s a quarter past four.

  
Nothing grabs my interest anymore. I sit for hours, trying to write. Nothing comes out. Nothing but lines of gibberish and bullshit. Some hot shot writer I am.

—

“A thousand other worries are floating in the wind.” I swirl my hands around. Dr. Adder feigns understanding as he ties his hair.   
  


“Michael, have you considered social interaction?” 

”What?” 

He pushes his glasses up. “Try calling your family. No face to face until you want to. Your family loves you, they will listen.” He tries to rest his hand on my shoulder. 

I pull away. “Yeah. Sure.”

As soon as I’m outta there, I take a pill. I don’t know what it’ll do, but I guess I’ll just have to wait and see. 

—

I can’t do anything.

Evan managed to drag me out for bowling. I don’t bother trying to stop him. I tell one of his buddies to take my turn since I can barely roll a ball straight. There’s nothing for me to do but get angry or cry or work on school work. You know— the real tuff shit. 

I step outside for a smoke. Evan trails behind me. He’s not stupid. Just more annoying and nosy than anything. He offers me his lighter. 

”You aren’t okay, Curtis.”

I nearly choke. I want to cry for no reason. “No shit.” 

“What’s going on?”

”Nothing,” I tell him. The smoke swirls up into the sky.

Silence. Evan takes a cigarette for himself. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” he says, “but if you need someone—“

”I’ll let you know.” What a fucking lie. 

—

Those pills Dr. Adder gave me are okay. I always get too creative when I take them. I’ll write for hours and forget to eat. Some days I don’t even bother taking a shower. I write until my hands go numb. I write until I have nothing left to write about. I feel like an imposter in my own skin if I don’t take them. But at least I finished that character analysis. At least I can live again. 

—

Darry calls. I’m writing and don’t bother picking up the phone until the fourth ring.

”Hello?”

“Hey kiddo. How’s, uh, California treatin’ you?” His voice is far away. I reach for the pill bottle.

”Fine enough.”

”Are you planning on coming home soon?”

The bottle crashes onto the ground. The pills are everywhere. Great. “Uh, yeah. When the semester is over.”

I can hear him clicking a pen nervously. “When? Do you have a date or time or anythin’?”

”No.” I pull the phone away from my ear to try and grab the bottle. Darry says something. I can’t hear him.

”Bye.” I hang up and dial the pharmacy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn’t tell already, this is heavily inspired by FeistyFeast’s fanfics over on FanFiction (mainly Wild World because I like the style). 
> 
> I’m also trying to figure out my writing style, I think I like this version more than the last.
> 
> Next update will have more canon characters, so be on the lookout for that! Stay gold as always.


	4. Homecoming

Homecoming 

* * *

It’s a quarter past four.

Evan ignores me. I don’t know what his problem is— I haven’t been bothering him or anything. In between school and writing I haven’t even spoken to my roommate. Sometimes I catch him staring at me from across the room, expression unreadable. He reminds me of someone with those big brown eyes. I don’t remember who anymore.   
  


—

  
The folks here are not like the ones back in Tulsa. They’re more free with their emotions. They’re not suffocated by the divide of “Socs and greasers”. They’re all just hippies or stoners or otherwise outcasts to society. 

But none of them look at sunsets. None of them feel the way I do. They’re all too busy getting high. It’s fine, because I do too. Getting high is better than bawling anyway.

—

Nightmares are a prevailing theme in my life. The crash was the start. The death of Johnny and Dallas only added to it. I can never remember what said nightmares are about. All I remember is waking up screaming and sweating. Evan knows this and puts up with it.

Tonight is different.

I wake up in a cold sweat. I remember nothing. It takes a second for my vision to come back. And even then— the dizziness doesn’t stop. Then I just sit there and cry. I haven’t cried in years but now I am. Anger, frustration, fear: it’s all there. And I just cry.

—  
  


Dr. Adder was arrested for some charge a few days ago. I’m stranded. I’ll find another therapist soon if I can get the money. Until then, I don’t know. I’ll just cry in the bathroom stalls.  
  


—

  
“Evan?”   
  


“Yeah?” We’re out with a few of our mutual friends at a restaurant. It reeks of perfume and week-old salmon.   
  


“Mind if we take a smoke break?”

He shrugs. “Sure. I’ll catch you guys in a few minutes.”  
  


—

I smoke half the pack before I can even talk properly. Evan takes one and lights it up.

”Something bothering you?”

”Yeah.” Maybe being inside a burning ember right now isn’t such a terrible idea. “But I can’t talk about it.”

Evan nods. “I get that.” Sometimes I forget I’m not the only one with problems. “Look, I was talking to your brother the other day. He really misses you. He’s concerned.” He takes a shaky breath.

”You tell him about Adder?” I crush the cigarette butt under my heel.   
  


Evan watches for my reaction. “Yeah. I did.” No shock there. “He said that those pills aren’t good and I agree with him.”

  
Anger comes up. I shove it down with another cigarette. ”I’m okay.”  
  


He shakes his head. ”Like hell you are.” 

—

  
The professor barely looks at me. He just hands back an essay with a large “D” scribbled over it.   
  


“What? But I did what the rubric said!” I tap a pencil nervously. Or angrily. It’s hard to tell anymore.  
  


He takes the seat opposite to me and scoots in close. ”Don't get me wrong, the paper’s great. Well-thought out, poetic, to the point... but you can’t use the same essay twice.”

I sink down in my chair. “I still put in the work. It’s still _my_ writing.” 

”It classifies as self-plagiarism. I’m sorry, Curtis, but I can’t help you. If you’d been in class, you’d know that.” I shouldn’t have ditched class in the first place, but breaking down in a parking lot is better than breaking down in class. 

An “I’m sorry” is all I can muster. “I’m so sorry.” I’m so sorry I failed you. I’m sorry.  
  


—

“Hey,” Evan yells from across the room. “It’s for you.”

I pull myself away from what little garbage writing I’d done. He hands me the phone.

”Ponyboy.” Darry’s voice knocks the wind out of me. He’s not mad. He’s scared. And that’s not a good thing.

”Uh, yeah?” My throat wrings itself. “I’m awful sorry I didn’t call—“

”Why the hell are you still taking those pills? They ain’t good for you, Pone! They ain’t...” The other line crackles.   
  


“—Just come home. Come home before I fly out there and drag you back myself.”   
  


I hang up before he can say “I love you”. I am tired of the lies tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this was worth the wait! And finally—drama (I guess).


	5. It’s A Funny Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about chapter four not having any new canon characters. My plot diagram got mixed up. 
> 
> Also if this published early, I’m so sorry. Well at least you get to see my ✨wonderful✨ writing process.

It’s A Funny Thing

* * *

It’s a quarter past four somewhere in the world. I’m on a plane to Tulsa. Or Hell, really. At least there I can get some over-the-counter stuff to kill this headache. But Darry will cause a lot more when he gets hold of me. That’s what I’m looking forward to. Absolutely.

Not.

—

It’s way too early for anyone to be awake. I think about stopping at a drug store before heading home. I’m not going to lie to them, but that doesn’t mean they have to know the truth.

But there’s Soda. He’s waiting for me by the gates. 

I’m amazed at how quickly Soda sees me in this crowd of people. He picks me up and swings me around, laughing. I can’t help but laugh too.   
  


—

  
Darry looks tired. He just looks tired and worn when I walk into the kitchen. But he looks up at me and smiles.   
  


“Welcome home, Pone.”

  
I’ll stay. But only for a little while, a month max. That’s it. Then I’m going... somewhere. I don’t know where yet. But somewhere. 

—

Darry is far from stupid.

He knows that I’m not doing okay, especially when I start smoking a lot. It’s almost as bad as when I was 14. I cough almost every other cigarette. One morning, he catches me on the porch with an empty pack of cigarettes by my side. He makes me throw the last one away. I can still remember his face: angry and a brand of scared I’ve never seen on him before.   
  


—

Nothing makes me happy anymore.

I can’t sit through movies. I don’t have many friends that aren’t in prison or dead here. Not even football games with Two-Bit and Steve grab my attention anymore. I just stay holed up in my room for days on end, writing and smoking.   
  


Hell, not even my room makes me happy. Sodapop has moved stuff around and taken over the space. It’s his room, not mine. I’m an imposter here.   
  


Thoughts like these make me wish I could feel like I used to. But maybe it’s better if I don’t. If you get tough... 

—

Two-Bit is grinning from ear to ear as he shows off where he’s working now. It’s a lousy little corner store where Charlie’s Bar used to be. It still reeks of booze if you ask me.

”Whaddya think, Horsehead?”   
  


“It’s great. Didn’t think you would get a job other than a bartender.”   
  


Two-Bit whacks me over the head for that. But we’re both still grinning. I’m proud of him. Really. I just gotta convince myself that I am.

—

Things come crashing down even more when I find out Darry has a girlfriend.   
  


He’s been stressing over me all this time when he should’ve been with his girlfriend. She’s sweet. She claims she understands that I’m his priority right now. She reminds me of my dad because of her demeanor. Always understanding, rarely angry. But I’d hate myself eternally if I fucked up Darry’s chance at love too.   
  


—

I feel like a kid. Everyone has grown up and moved on except me. Two has a job. Steve is going to get married sometime soon. Darry has a girlfriend.

And I’m just the college failure with too many vices to count. 

—

Darry and I have an argument over something stupid. I storm out of the house and decide to sleep on a bench. I sneak back into the house God knows when— everything looks so foreign. I can’t even make out who’s sleeping on the bed in Soda’s room.   
  


My hands begin to shake.  
  


They shake without ceasing. Every inch of my body is struck with a sudden and forceful cold. I sprint to the bathroom to try and vomit. Instead I just end up crying for what feels like an eternity.   
  


Then I remember the last few pills I have and dump them all in my mouth in a fit of pure desperation. Anything to feel better. Anything to keep me alive.

I’m out on the tile floor before I can even comprehend what I just did.

—

  
Am I awake? I can’t see anything. My whole body is numb. I hear voices coming from somewhere. I assume it’s my brothers. 

”—he wasn’t okay when he stepped off that plane—“

”He’s not the same—“

”Is this my fault?—“

”I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

—

The doctor has me sit up and drink a weird tasting fluid. He’s checking every monitor and wire in and around me. He just looks like a blur.   
  


“Where are my brothers?”

”Outside. I can get them if you want me to.”

I’m too tired to object. “Okay.”

—

I’ve only seen Soda this angry once and it was when Tim Shepard made the mistake of joking about our parents’ deaths. Now he’s here, pacing and muttering things I dare won’t repeat.

”Did you get help? Did you ever try to reach out before doing that? You could’ve died, Ponyboy! Died! One more pill and you would still be in- in a coma or-or worse.” The stuttering kicked in. A trait from Mom.

“I was right there! You could have woken me up!” I see tears running down his face. “I can’t lose you!”   
  


Silence filled the hospital room. Soda sinks down next to my bed. He wasn’t even crying, just staring.   
  


I cut the silence short. “I’m so sorry.”

—

Darry says nothing. He just stares at me. When Darry is at a loss of words, I know that I’ve fucked up big time.   
  


He walks over and takes my hand. I’m half-afraid he’s going to punch me in the face for how mad he looks. “Don’t ever do that again.” Then he hugs me. I can hear his voice break when he says “I will keep you safe.”

And I know what he means when he says that. I don’t blame his fear. I just blame myself.

—

“Was this a suicide attempt?”

”No.” 

The doctor looks at me as if I’d grown a second head. “Then what was it, son?”

”A really stupid decision.” That’s not a lie. I don’t know the truth myself.

The doctor sighs. “Overdosing on antidepressants looks very suspicious.”

”I’m sure it does.” I just want to sleep. The doctor however grins at my snarky comment.

”Well, I gotta have a reason why you did it. I’m not sending you to any psych ward or anything.”

I sigh. This will sound so stupid. “I was going through stuff. It was the only way to calm me down.” There. I said it.   
  


”Okay. The pills knocked you out, but all your other symptoms seem like pneumonia to me. You’ll stay here for a few days then go home. And no more smoking for at least a month once you are home. Clear?”

Sleeping on that park bench in the dead of winter wasn’t the brightest idea. And now I’m here.

“Yessir.”

—  
  


Steve walks into the hospital room and just about slaps me across the face.   
  


“You’re a little shit.”  
  


”Shut up.”  
  


“Soda’s been crying every fucking day since you pulled that little stunt.”  
  


I go quiet. Steve continues.  
  


”I don’t hate you, kid, but you need to grow up an’ stop thinking about only you.”   
  


“Okay.”

”Just be glad you’re in that hospital bed and not in Hell.”  
  


Trust me, Steve. I’m already here.   
  


—

Sodapop and Darry talk in hushed tones right outside the door.   
  


“What if it was an attempt? I wasn’t there for him—“  
  


”It wasn’t, Soda. You can ask the doctor—“  
  


”He could’ve lied. He always lies. To protect us.”  
  


Darry’s voice is racked with sobs, just like Soda’s. “I know. We all do.”   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the 40 kudos, I appreciate it! Also I know, longer chapters: it’s truly a quarantine miracle. Do you guys like them though? Please tell me in the comments!


	6. Not Much Worth Losing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reread my earlier chapters and I think I should add a bit more to them. But I’m starting to find my style, so that’s good. I hope you enjoy as always!

Not Much Worth Losing

* * *

It’s a quarter past four. I can’t sleep, despite trying. Whatever kind of meds they put me on keep me wide awake. And I can’t even do anything but sleep or think. I’d rather have Darry be yelling at me then be alone with my thoughts. Because, deep down, I know Darry loves me. And deep down, I know I hate myself.   
  


It’s not like I have much to lose anyway. 

— 

A few days pass. The doctor said I only have four more days then I’m free. Free where? In what world am I free? I don’t know.   
  


—  
  
Soda’s been ignoring me. He hasn’t been in for maybe three days. Darry has been in and out, usually bringing some food or magazines. He’s still concerned about me. I don't blame him.

All of this reminds me of the time Soda wound up in the hospital when he tore a ligament horse-racing. Boy, he was so upset when Dad told him he couldn’t ride horses anymore. I was too young to understand why he and Dad wouldn’t let me into the hospital room when they were in there. I was a pretty dumb kid when it came to social ques. Still am, in a lot of ways. 

I wish I were a kid again. I wish I could escape who I've become. 

—

Darry wakes me up. He's a lot more gentle than usual. "Hey, kiddo. I, uh, brought some things. Your roommate sent them."

My mind is hazy. My roommate? Oh, right. Evan. I guess someone told him what happened to me. I pull myself up and try not to collapse again. I say something that just sounds like gibberish to me. Darry frowns for a second. He puts a hand to my forehead.

"Jeez, you're spiking up again." There's a certain look on his face I can't identify. Disappointment? Fear? Anger? Whatever it is, he tries to repress it. He grabs a box from the floor. "Here. I'll let you rest. See you soon."

"Darry?"

He's halfway through the door. "What?"

"Please don't slam the door on your way out."

—

I look through the box a bit later. Well I think it's only a bit later. My perception of time isn't working correctly— it never really has if i'm being honest. It's mostly old assignments and random poems. 

There's a note at the bottom. I read it.

_Pony,_

_Don't save this shit for the obituary. Publish it. It's good._

_Evan S._

_P.S.; I'll miss you, pal._

I can't tell if it's my fever or my emotional state that makes me cry. But I cry. And I don't stop.

—

I scribble down a poem on a notepad the nurse gives me. 

_Home. I'm heading home._

_In one way or another, I'm heading home._

_Whether with Darry and Soda;_

_or to see my folks._

_Home. I'm heading home._

_Johnny_ _and Dal can wait a bit longer_

_The earth can continue to move-_

_I'm heading home one way or another._

_I'll get back to you._

Maybe I should turn this into a song. But the piano at home is broken God knows I can't sing loud. But maybe someday. 

—

Sodapop doesn't talk to me much on the car ride home. He's chewing the inside of his cheek. I don't say much myself. 

"I'm sorry."

He lets out a shaky breath. "It's okay, kiddo." Pause. "You know you can talk to me if you ever have thoughts, right?"

My brother, Sodapop Curtis, wouldn't understand what I feel. He can sympathize, but not understand. But I say nothing and nod.

"I love you."

It's my turn to let out a shaky breath. I have to breathe. "I love you too." 


	7. Holidays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: heavy discussion of suicide, intrusive thoughts, and suicidal thoughts. Proceed with caution.

Holidays

* * *

It's a quarter past four and I can't resist the urge to smoke. I tried maybe five times to go to sleep. Nothing's been working, so might as well turn to one of my many vices. 

I steal a Kool from Soda's not-so-hidden drawer and go out on the back porch. It's peaceful. Lord knows I need that kind of peace. My mind has been too loud to handle these past few days. Then again, everyone's has. Christmas is just around the corner.

There's footsteps. Shit, please let it be anyone outside of the gang. I'll take fucking Bryon Douglas over Two-Bit right now.

My prayer is answered. Somewhat.

”Hey, Tim.” He looks basically the same, albeit a bit more scarred and angry. No one can blame him. I sure as hell can’t.  
  


He gives a wry smile. ”Curtis. I heard of your little attempt.”

  
I open my mouth to say something. He cuts me off.   
  


”You’re the third one this month.” He motions for me to scoot over. I do.  
  


Of course. I keep forgetting that I’m not as alone as I think I am— whether that’s good or bad, I don’t know yet.

He drops his voice to something of an angry mutter. “Don’t fuckin’ die. Darry’ll lose it.”

”He still talks to you?”

Tim lights his own cigarette. “Unfortunately.”

We both are quiet for a minute. “Who are the others? The ones who attempted?”

He shrugs. “One of the former Brumly Boys an’ some broad. The girl’s in a coma. The other one is alright.” Tim doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. Probably because he either doesn’t care, or he cares too much. I can’t say that I don’t relate. 

”Oh.” I have to choose my next words carefully. I can’t risk getting my skull bashed in. “Have... you attempted, Tim?”

I can tell he doesn’t want to answer by the look on his face. But he does anyway. For some reason.  
  


“Yep. More than once. Once after Dallas got himself killed, and once after Angela...”  
  


He didn’t say anything else. Instead, he just took a drag on his cigarette. Angel is dead, just like the rest.   
  


Tim has seen a lot. Done a lot. Lived a lot. I used to be jealous of how cool and tough he was, when I was a kid. Then I got old and realized that he was just tired of living. Living the way we do either takes away your soul or takes away everyone around you. If you’re unlucky like us, it’s both.   
  
  


I've never been particularly buddy-buddy with Tim, but he knows me more than anyone in California did. Even Evan. Is his name even Evan? I don't remember. It doesn't matter.

“Oh.” What do I say? I’m dealing with the same shit and can’t even communicate with someone without sounding like a jackass.

”Thanks for, uh, trusting me.” I stomp out a cigarette butt. “I won’t tell anyone.”  
  


Tim stands up. He’s done with this conversation. I don’t blame him. “Good. Later, Curtis.” And with that, he leaves.  
  


Just like Dally, there’s some level of depth I can’t comprehend in Timothy Shepard. Maybe I’ll figure it out one day.

—

  
Darry isn’t happy. At all. He’s not mad, either—not necessarily. He’s... afraid. And that scares me more than his anger.   
  


“We need to talk.”  
  


My mind reels. Shit, did Tim tell him about the early morning smoke? I hope not. He’s not the type to break promises unprompted.   
  


”Yeah?” I set the bag of groceries on the counter. “What’s wrong?”  
  


”How... How have you been? Mentally?”  
  


”Uh, fine I guess?” I’m not fine at all. But what do I tell him, that I’m an inch away from death? No. I won’t. “I’m not dead, at least.”

  
“Yeah, that’s what we’re trying to avoid here.” He laughs. The laughter doesn’t reach his eyes.   
  


I swallow. “Why do you want to know?”  
  


”Well,” he shrugs, “it’s about college. Soda an’ I were talking, and I’m not sure you should be going back. Just for the semester.” Darry is already trying to salvage the situation. I can’t say I’m ungrateful for his newfound tenderness, but it’s weird to experience after years of that bootstrap idealism.  
  


“Are you making me stay home?”  
  


Darry shakes his head. “No. I won’t lie, that’s what I wanted to do, but...” He hesitates for a second. “You’re old enough now to control some parts of your life. No matter what you choose, I’m here.”   
  


Someone must’ve convinced him. I don’t know who. Regardless, I can’t properly think of the pros and cons of each decision, so I can’t make one.   
  


“Give me some time to think about it.” I unload a loaf of bread and some canned tomatoes. “Please.”  
  


”Take your time. I don’t need an answer until the 30th.” Darry pats me on the back and disappears into his room. He didn’t slam the door this time.   
  


—

December 24th comes around. The gang— what’s left of it— and I head over to this new place on our side of town. The dingo got bombed a few years back, so the city decided it would be a good idea to build something a bit less dangerous on its ashes. Now it’s nicer, but still a rough place.  
  


Darry almost immediately gets taken away by his girlfriend. Soda and Steve are off with some black-haired broads with beehives taller than me. One of them is probably Evie, but I can’t tell under all that hair. I think they look ugly. The hairstyles, not the girls.  
  


Two-Bit isn’t drunk for once. I kind of wish he was. It would be easier to talk to him.  
  


”Is Kathy not around?” I look anywhere but at him. I can’t stand to see Two-Bit so concerned. Too many memories.   
  


“Nah, she’s with her family. Her ma an’ pa can’t stand me,” he chuckles. “They still gave me a present though. Funny people, those Wilson’s.”  
  


They sure are. Not that I would really know or care. “What did they get you?”  
  


”Whiskey.” At that, Two-Bit can’t stop grinning. “They only tolerate me when drunk. Ha!” He’s laughing, genuinely, for the first time in a while.

  
I can’t stop the smile on my face from growing before I even say the joke. ”You know, I can’t blame ‘em. You ain’t Keith Mathews without a gin in your system.” I duck before he can whack the back of my head. We’re both giggling like little kids. It’s nice.  
  


“Oh, wait, I got ya something. Wait here.”   
  


Two-Bit leaves. Someone taps me on the shoulder from behind.   
  


“Ponyboy.” It’s Tim. He’s wearing the same outfit as before, but with freshly greased hair. I nod.   
  


“Hey, Tim. Didn’t think you’d make it,” I say. It’s just small talk. But deep inside of me, I’m glad to see him here. Somehow.   
  


He nods as if he knows what I’m thinking. “Didn’t think I’d make it either. But I had a reason to come.”  
  


He’s talking about life, not the party. I don’t know why I know that. But I do.   
  


“What’s the reason?”   
  


Tim’s face lightens a bit. “None of your business.”

  
Is that a smile on his face? Whatever it is, it’s gone as soon as I see it. “Okay. Sorry for asking.”

  
He shrugs. “You mean well, Curtis. No harm done.” Tim fixes the collar of his jacket. “Merry Christmas.”   
  


“Merry Christmas, Tim.” He saunters off into the crowd as I’m left puzzled again. But I don’t have time to think about it. I turn around when I hear the door open.

  
Two-Bit comes back with a big grin on his face. “Here,” he hands me a box covered in a tacky gold foil. “Go ahead. Open it.”  
  


I open it. Inside, there’s an extremely well-made switchblade. Hell, it doesn’t look real. “Holy shit. How did you get this?”  
  


“There was an Indian guy trying to sell it down near the cornerstore off Independence. So I paid him an’ cleaned it up. She’s pretty, ain’t she?” He’s beaming with pride as I inspect it. It really is a beautiful knife.   
  


“Yeah. Thanks.” Now I feel bad that all I got for him was some on-sale pomade and a knife-sharpening kit.   
  


“Don’t worry about repaying me. I’m just happy you’re alive.” He’s so casual in the way he said it that it would be hard for a stranger to notice the fear in his eyes. But I’ve known him for years.   
  


I notice that fear.  
  


I nod. “Thank you.”  
  


”Merry Christmas, Pone.”  
  


I swallow the pain in my throat. “Merry Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, long time no see. I am taking two AP classes this year and whooo boy, it’s a lot. Plus, this pandemic is also a pain. I’m sorry for not updating sooner! This chapter has seen 3-4 rewrites. I’ll start the next chapter in November, providing my mental health will allow me. I hope you enjoy as always, and stay safe.


	8. Shit’s Better Than Nothing

Shit’s Better Than Nothing

* * *

It’s a quarter past four. I’m already up reading the newspaper. There’s not much of interest— a shop in the west district shuts down after a food poisoning incident, workers strike again for the 3rd time this year (despite it being January), some kids have gone missing, and a couple of bodies were found floating in a lake not far from the city. Nothing really grabs my interest. 

It takes a random, small article on teenage poverty to make me feel anything. Maybe too much. It hits a bit too close. I should feel guilty that death did nothing but poverty did. But that’s the way it is, I guess. I get the idea to write— without the pills this time.  
  


I hit most everything while trying to find some damn paper. It’s a miracle Soda hasn’t woken up yet. He really does sleep like a rock sometimes.  
  


When I find a sheet, it looks like it’s already been used. Just my luck. The ink is bleeding through to the other side. I don’t care enough to find another one. That is, until I think more about it. Since when did any of our pens have so much ink that it would bleed through this kind of paper?   
  


Wait. This isn’t even our paper. There’s a faint stamp outline of a roofing company logo. I turn the sheet over and scan the typed-out lines.   
  


Darry got fired from both of his jobs.   
  


—  
  


“Hey, Darry?”   
  


He looks awful tired. He had been out with his girlfriend most of last night, but I doubt that was the source of his stress. Darry glances up at me from the newspaper I was reading a few hours earlier.

”Yeah?”  
  


I try my best to be honest. “When did you get fired?” I sit down across from him and watch his face turn from shock to... something. Malcontented, maybe.  
  


”Where did you hear about that?” He keeps his voice low and puts the newspaper aside.   
  


I can’t lie. Not again. “I saw the paper in the drawer. It was an accident.”  
  


Darry stares at me for a minute. He’s trying to read me. “What were you tryin’ to do?”  
  


“Write,” I say. There. That’s the truth. It feels good to tell the truth after the host of lies I’ve been living recently.  
  


He sips his coffee and doesn’t look me in the eye. “Everything’s fine. I’ll get a new job soon.”

”That doesn’t answer my question. When did you get fired?”  
  


Darry sighs, frustrated. “Last week.”

”Oh.”  
  


Call it paranoia or premonition, but my first thought is that this is my fault. But he’s not mad at me, nor blaming me. I just feel that it is though.  
  


”Do you want me to get a job?”

It takes a second for me to register what I said. A job? In Tulsa? That’s a goddamn death warrant, depending on the job. There’s a reason there’s so many worker strikes. But they— _we_ — need the money more than ever. I want to help. I want to escape my own mind. 

Darry looks just as surprised as I initially was. “Do you want a job?”

”Sure,” I shrug. “It’ll help me get out of my own head.” Or that’s the hope, at least.

He takes a second before responding. “We can talk about it later. I don’t need you getting a job for two weeks then flying back to California.”   
  


Right. That. "Wasn't I supposed to tell you by December 30th?"

"Yes, but it's okay." Some of the anger dissipated. "The college doesn't need to know until the 15th, I just wanted to get out out of the way. If you choose to stay here, the college downtown has a semester starting in February. Just... think on it for me, okay?"

I nod. “Okay.”

—

A midnight drive out to a local lake doesn’t seem like the brightest idea, considering that I’m still sick. But I need to clear my head of the cement weighing it down. Maybe I’ll get some ideas, too, if I’m still enough and hope just the right amount.   
  


I park Darry’s old truck out by where the gravel path ends and make my way through the bare limbs of already half-dead trees. It’s a miracle anything is alive out in the Tulsa smog.   
  


There in the back is the lake. It’s still and peaceful, like it hadn’t moved an inch since I was 15 and there last.   
  


Why am I here? Why did I bring myself to this place? I don’t want it. Get out. Everything in me wants out of here. It’s overwhelming.

I can’t keep these thoughts about the past away. No matter how hard I try. But I’ll be fine. I’m always ‘fine’.

I smooth out a patch of grass and stare at my reflection in the ripples. A distorted version of me stares back.   
  


I guess that’s it, then. I’m staying here. I’m too stubborn not to. Or too dumb.  
  


Pen goes to paper and I’m off to writing utter bullshit for what felt like hours. Page after page angrily shoved into my pocket or left by my leg. I have nothing good to say. I recall— or, try to— my professor’s words; _words are inward and flow out. Don’t force them to come. If you’re in a bad space, then your writing will reflect that. Take advantage of it. Don’t be afraid to allow yourself to feel._ He looked at me while saying that.   
  


Don’t be afraid to feel. Those words ring through my head like ripples. But it’s getting light. I’ve wasted all my time. But, I have _something_.

And sometimes, shit’s better than nothing. Feeling something is better than feeling nothing at all. I just gotta drill that in somehow.

—

“Heard ya wanted a job.”   
  


Steve leans on the doorway to my bedroom, half-scanning my room and half-judging me. More like 1/4 scanning and 3/4 judging, if you want to get technical about it.   
  


“Yeah? What of it?” I put my pencil down. “You got a job offer?”  
  


”Not necessarily,” he makes a motion with his hand, “but I found this. Thought you’d be interested in it.” Steve tossed a WANTED: HELP newspaper section onto my bed. I reached for it, trying not to have to leave my chair and workbench.   
  


“Lemme guess, it’s shit jobs,” I said while scanning a few lines. It was mostly menial labor and “work-til-it’s-done” jobs. Nothing interesting.   
  


Steve’s eye roll can be heard rather than just seen. “Maybe if you weren’t such a wiseass, you’d notice the back side.” He muttered something else. I had forgotten how quiet he could be.   
  


The back page had a large WRITERS NEEDED headline, from _Tulsa World._ They needed a new writer, “ _no experience needed!_ ”, to take on some smaller news cases and help with editing. The pay isn’t too bad— $4.50 an hour— and it seemed half-decent.

“Surprised you gave this to me.” I look at him. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he still looked 16. I look away to scan over the page again. It seems to good to be true.

Steve scoffed. “You don’t give me enough credit, kid. I don’t hate ya. You’re jus’ the kid brother of the group, so it’s my job to antagonize you every once in a while.”  
  


I throw my pencil at him. “Yeah, right. You probably get off on it.”  
  


”Hey!”  
  


I’m already trying to break the lock on the window before Steve even could get to me.   
  


—

“So, are you gonna try out for the job?”   
  


“It’s a _job_ , Di, not a cheer squad,” Two-Bit elbows his sister. She smacks his arm away.   
  


“Well sorry I’m not old like you. So, Pony, are you?” Diane’s grey eyes are wide. She is awful cute for a bratty 15 year old. Well, at least she’s cuter than Two-Bit. Not that there's much competition anyway.  
  


The cafe is crowded but comfortable. It has that home-y feel that brings you into its comforting embrace. Sure, you have to pay for your food, but it never feels stiff or empty.   
Diane Mathews plays with the hem of her skirt under the booth as Two-Bit downs his third cup of coffee. He's been stuck with the early shift at work. I don't think I've ever seen Two-Bit touch something that wasn't alcoholic or carbonated, besides today. Maybe he always did and I never noticed. 

"Yeah, I probably will." I don't see the point in going back to California now. I felt more numb there than here. I still feel numb. Just not as much. But, I still am divided. What if...? "Gotta get my suit dry cleaned before the interview, though."

Diane sucks down half of her milkshake. "I could drive you. I need the hours for my license anyway."

"Since when was you honest?" Two-Bit shoots her a look.

Her face goes red. "Shut up, will ya?” 

I can't help but laugh. Sibling love. I wish that my brothers could be like that with me again instead of constantly walking on eggshells and avoiding me. But I caused it, so I deserve it.   
  


My fault.

"Pone, I can pay for the dry cleaning if ya want," Two-Bit breaks into my thoughts. "If you die while in the car with her, then might as well get your suit made up nicely, right?" He bursts into highly-caffeinated laughter. Diane kicks him under the table.

Di's wide gray eyes come back to me. She smiles and it reminds me of my mom. It takes a lot not to look away. "Don't worry, Momma says I'm a good driver." 

"I wouldn't trust her. Have you seen the way she drives? She's like a bat outta hell!" Diane kicks him again. He still howls with laughter. This might not be the life I want, but shit's better than nothing.

I hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! I promise I'm not dead. School and 2020 have been an absolute pain in the ass for me, as has the beginning of 2021. But, I hope you enjoy as always and if you have any comments/questions, tell me over on my Tumblr @rottingmanifesto (or thesketchykid, which is my main) . Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Happy belated New Year. -M
> 
> Edit (2/24/21): I corrected some tense issues, it should be all in present now. I also corrected some grammatical mistakes. Hope it’s easier to read! -M
> 
> P.S.: Big kudos to Liv and allpowerfuloracle-- and all of you-- for keeping me motivated! You're the reason this fic is still alive.


	10. Author’s Note

Author’s Note

Hey! It’s the author here. This is not chapter 9 (I am very sorry), but it does have to do with chapter 9 and the fanfic.

If you haven’t noticed, chapter 8 is a bit longer and more detailed than usual. My main question is if you guys 1) like the style and want me to keep it, and 2) what your favorite chapter is thus far.   
  


Please tell me in the comments below! I won’t be keeping this up for long, it’s just for inventory’s sake. There is a google form attached to this if you so care to be extra nice and go into detail about what you do/don't like, but it isn't required. 

Thank you so much for keeping up to date with this, your support keeps this project alive. Stay gold.   
  


Here’s the handy link!

https://forms.gle/AhVAqkLjeL7mprPFA 


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